


And Croquet

by easystreets



Category: Bandom, I'm Not Okay (I Promise) - Music Video, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - I'm Not Okay Video, Bob hate, Croquet, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easystreets/pseuds/easystreets
Summary: Frank's the new kid, and the Belleville Croquet Team really needs someone to replace their striker. It's that simple.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	And Croquet

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i appreciate it and i hope you enjoy :) shoutout to wikipedia's page on croquet with a fuckin glossary.

"Croquet, huh?"

The poster was probably the best poster Frank had ever seen in the hallways of a high school, and he'd seen a lot, what with Mom's job and all. Seven miserable high school hallways in the past two years, actually, full of posters advertising clubs and class presidents, all made on dull cardstock or printer paper. But this one was striking, right above the water fountain like in an episode of Dawson's Creek or something, like it was meant to catch his eye. The writing was deliberate but scratchy, like the type of font metal bands liked to use, and there was a border made entirely of what looked like mallets, in alternating red and blue. 

_Croquet tryouts after school. If you are ready to be part of a nationals level team, to dedicate your life to a sport, to become one with the wicket: meet in the far-right field at no later than 2:30. We are only looking to fill one highly-coveted spot on our team, so no hurt feel--_

_Wow_ , Frank thought, and then, _people in Jersey are fucking weird_. He didn't even know croquet was a thing, and suddenly there were fucking nationals. As disturbingly intense as it sounded, he was kind of bored, and he really needed a cool story to e-mail his friend Hambone, who he'd jammed with back in Des Moines for the better part of his freshman year. He considered it, standing in the middle of the empty hallway like he was lost-- and okay, if he was, that's because the interior of this school looked like a fucking prison, and the door numbers made no sense. It wasn't bad idea: joining a croquet team or club or whatever, just for shits and giggles. Mom would be happy he'd taken an interest in something other than guitar, and maybe the universities here had croquet scholarships or something.

Frank tore the poster, ripping a little where the tape had stuck onto the bright block lettering, and folded it carefully into his pocket. Whatever. It wasn't a life commitment or anything. Just a cool fucking poster.

-

Try-outs were fucking difficult to find. For one, he had exactly zero idea where the far-right field was, and by the time Frank found what he thought was the stupid field, the croquet assholes were nowhere to be seen. He walked with his bag full of textbooks and bitten pencils because his locker was a broken piece of shit that had fucking cobwebs in it, and kicked at the turf on the field. Stupid new school. Stupid fucking dress code and stupid fucking organized sports. 

He wasn't sure what had gotten into him. He wasn't a sports guy, he didn't know jack-shit about stretches or pull-ups. Most of the time in gym, he sat out and fidgeted with his inhaler. It was a stupid idea, wanting to be part of a team. A national levels team that required dedication and practice, when Frank knew all too well that they'd be out of this place in a matter of months, if not weeks. What was the point of joining just to leave? Of getting attached just to tear himself away?

Frank pulled out his lighter and leaned against the garbage can. He fumbled for his lighter, and the flyer came tumbling out. Good, he thought, and watched it blow around his feet, his shoes that the biology teacher had threatened to give him a detention for because they weren't the right shade of dark brown or something.

"Are you new?" 

Oh shit. "Yeah." Frank said, and didn't look up at the guy. Whoever it was would hopefully just fuck off. Frank really didn't want blood on his brand-new dress shirt.

"I was just wondering because you looked super lost," said the guy. "And-- oh man, kids keep pulling these down." He leant and picked up the flyer. Frank's flyer. It was then Frank turned his head away from the leaf he was crushing under his toe and hazarded a glance at the guy. He was dorky-looking, but the type that made Frank know that he didn't know it and was better for it, that way, kind of innocent and soft around the edges, like he didn't notice how fucked the world could be. Or maybe he just didn't care. His blazer was a size too large and there was a Yoda keychain dangling off his backpack, and a fucking croquet mallet in his hands. "I draw these, you know? No copy machine or anything, but because the football team has to practice on a slightly smaller field one afternoon each week, it's fucking World War Three and they just tear 'em off."

"I'm sorry," Frank said. "I just-- I wanted to remember to go, but I couldn't find the field and then I missed my bus so I couldn't go home, and now I'm... here."

"So now you're here," the other guy agreed, and uncrumpled Frank's flyer. "You ever play before?"

Frank blushed. The guy was kinda pretty, and he was standing close. "No, most schools don't have croquet teams."

"I know," the guy said, suddenly sullen. "It's like, it's a fucking sport. You know what country fucking appreciates croquet? India. Now that's a country I fucking respect, okay, because they understand how--" the guy stopped, paused, and looked at Frank studiously, like he was scanning his brain or something.

"What?" Frank spat. He wasn't a fucking circus freak, okay, even if he was new. 

"You're the perfect height for a striker. And our old one just left. What did you say your name was?" The guy pulled out a piece of paper. TRY OUT SHEET, it said. All the spots were blank. Suddenly, Frank realized that croquet wasn't a very popular sport, no matter how ridiculously badass the poster had made it seem. 

"Frank." 

"Frank," the guy hummed. He had a sweet voice, too, soft but a little raspy. "I'm Gerard. What class do you have last?"

"Math," Frank said. "With Stadler."

"Well," Gerard said, "I'll be outside your class waiting for you, so be quick."

Frank gave him a blank look, because even if the guy was admittedly hot, this was weird behavior. 

"So you don't get lost on your way to try-outs," Gerard explained, and ruffled his head. "See you, Frankie!"

Fuck, Frank sighed, and smoked another cigarette before he got on the bus. 

-

Math class ended way too soon.

Frank winced at himself for thinking that, because really? God. Gerard was just a friend, some nice if slightly unhinged guy who, yes, might have been trying to make Frank the next Chris Clarke (he'd done his research, okay?), but had yet to shove Frank in a locker or find some way to turn his name into a slur or an insult. He was sweet; he was stupid hot with his dark eyes and he even made the hideous uniform look attractive; he was--

He was outside the door, right outside, when Frank stumbled out. "Hi!" Gerard said, a little too loud. "Are you excited?"

"Yeah," Frank managed. "I don't know that much, though."

Gerard nodded. "It's okay. The guys are really nice. As long as you're not weird about gay people or being different or anything like that." Gerard paused, in the middle of the ridiculously busy hallway, and stared at Frank like he was trying to be intimidating. It was mostly cute, though, what with the way he pursed his bitten lips together and the way his cheeks got bright red. "You're not weird about gay shit, right?"

"No!" Frank said. "No. Fuck that, fucking homophobes." If there was one thing he felt strongly about, it was that. 

Gerard laughed with relief. "Good." He wrapped an arm around Frank's waist, pulling tight at his blazer. "I told them you were cool. But it's like, you never know."

Frank smiled weakly, and followed Gerard the rest of the way in there. In his mind, he wondered if Gerard had like, legit Gaydar or something. Frank wasn't really out; one of his English teachers from Arizona had just, like, figured it out when he handed in one too many essays on how judgmental society could be, and he was pretty sure his mother had an inkling, but that was because she was his _mom_. 

"Mikeyway!" Gerard said when they got to the field. Frank wasn't exactly sure what a Mikeyway was, or if it was some sort of imminent threat, but then a skinny dude came running up to Gerard and wrapped him in a tight hug, like they were long lost relatives or something. They did kind of look alike.

"This is Mikey," Gerard said proudly, patting Mikey on the head even though he was almost taller than him. "My little brother."

"Hi," Frank said. "Um," he said, watching as another guy lugged a bagful of gear across the field. He wasn't sure if he should help or anything. 

"This is my new friend, Frank," Gerard said. "And that's Ray, who's pretty much the strongest guy ever."

Mikey kicked darkly at the grass. It was fucking hot out, that warm resurgence of sunlight in April, but Mikey was wearing one of those button-up winter jackets that his Mom had like, three of, and his glasses were so smudged Frank kind of wanted to wipe them off on his t-shirt. "This is Bob's replacement?"

"Frankie's way nicer than Bob," Gerard said, and then whispered something in Mikey's ear. Whatever it was made Mikey's face twitch a little, but then he was back to serious business. "I made sure."

"Who the fuck is Bob?" Frank asked, because he had never been quite good with patience, and also because he wanted to know, like, if he had big shoes to temporarily fill until him and Mom fucked off to wherever. 

"Bob's an asshole," Mikey said, crossing his arms.

"Left us to join the big leagues." Gerard spat onto the dazzlingly bright Astroturf. "Fucking football. And he screwed us over too, practically bent us--"

"Who's bending us?" Ray asked, slightly out of breath.

"He's telling the Bob story," Mikey said in a hushed tone.

"Anyways," Gerard said. "Bob got good with us, learned all his etiquette and how to work as a team. Then people start giving him shit, which he apparently wasn't used to hearing. Just regular hallway hazing, which _is_ horrible, but you get used to it, you know? You take the shit in exchange for being part of something great, something really fucking amazing. But fucking Briar fucked us over, right before championships."

"A day before," Ray nodded solemnly. "Didn't even give us time to prepare or anything."

"A day before," Gerard agreed. Frank was starting to get the sense he was a big talker, but he didn't mind. The sun was gentle and warm on his arms, and there was something surreal about standing in the middle of a football field, like he was on stage at a concert, like he _was_ doing something really fucking amazing. "A day before, Bob calls us-- doesn't even have the fucking decency to say it to our faces-- and says the football coach offered him a linebacker position. So we had to forfeit." 

"Belleville never forfeits," Ray said. "And we had a thing, you know, as a team? We all got each other. At least we _thought_ we did." 

"Bob sucks," Mikey summarized. From what Frank had heard of him, he kind of had to agree. 

"Yeah," Frank said. "I get that. He sounds like a dick."

Everyone was quiet for a moment, nodding at the field. Then Ray zipped open the bag. 

"Shit, I forgot the sunscreen." He tossed a mallet in Frank's direction, and Frank fumbled to catch it. "Oh well. I'm not the one who needs it."

Gerard rolled his eyes. "I don't even burn that bad."

"Kids called you Red Lobster for weeks, Gee." Mikey said, with a long-suffering gaze into the depths of the football field. 

"Yeah, yeah," Gerard said. "Pass me the balls. Let's show Frankie here how it's done." 

Frank stood awkwardly until Gerard grabbed him by the arm and gently dragged him to where he'd lined up four balls: black and blue, and red and yellow.

"Does it matter..." Frank said, reaching for a mallet. Ray handed him one, and holy shit, they were actually kind of heavy. "which colour?"

"Not today," Gerard said. "But yeah. Usually they do."

"We'll explain the rules later," Ray smiled. "Right now, though, just show us if you can get it through that metal hoop."

"That's it?" Frank said. It didn't seem that hard, anyway. "Just hit it through?"

"That's it," Ray said. He stood back, and Frank felt everyone's eyes on his back as he struck the red ball. He watched it roll, catching momentum and eventually making it through the metal hoop Mikey had staked into the ground.

"Okay," Gerard said. "Good. Now we try two. That's why croquet's called croquet, actually, because of the way you hit the two balls at the same time."

"I'm trying really hard not to make a ball joke right now," Frank said, and then immediately regretted because these guys were fucking serious about it. Thankfully, everyone broke into laughter, even Mikey, who had been watching silently. "Okay, two."

They collided, and it was-- it had to be dumb luck, but they both went through the hoops. He did the circuit like that, knocking them against each other, and the guys watched him quietly, like he was fucking up the game so badly or butchering the rules that Ray explained to him as he went. When he finished, mallet tossed to the ground, Gerard wrapped him in the tightest hug probably ever.

"Holy shit," Gerard said. He smelled like cigarettes and cologne and sweat. "Frankie, you're a fucking prodigy."

"You did that circuit in like, three breaks," Ray said, astonished. "Three."

"Way better than Bob," Mikey added. "I say he joins."

"I don't see how we could let him walk away," Ray said.

"I mean," Frank said, feeling happier than he'd felt in ages, hugged against Gerard's blazer, feeling both their hearts beat. He hadn't felt this alive in a long time. "Why the fuck not?"

Gerard grabbed Frank's hand and squeezed it tight, squealing in his ears about how he had a gift, how he was a fucking natural. _Holy shit_ , Frank thought, because in the past two days he'd gone from barely knowing what croquet was to being really great at it. Not because Gerard was holding his hand and telling him he rocked his world. No. That was weird. Frank was pretty sure most croquet teams had a policy against teammates dating teammates. But then again, Frank wasn't really the type to follow the rules. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you! i had this Vision of frank being a natural at croquet and it kind of just went from there. if you want me to write more of this just let me know! i have an idea for how i want this to go but i am welcome to suggestions and concrit as always. also it's my first day at work tmrw so good vibes are appreciated xo


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